Paul J Penton – Songwriter

You seem to know someone, who knows someone, who knows someone who got laid off recently, the Ee-con-O-mee is not functioning properly it’s engine is limping to the service station just at the bottom of the J curve. it’s not exactly going past long lines of men with begging bowls and pained faces yet, that’s a dee-presh-on. Ree-Sesh-on just means that we confident consumers are not sure if we’re going to getting a pay check next week, next month, so we’re cautious.

We start to hear stories of businesses that have been sailing too close to the wind running aground. Employees having to be thrown overboard to keep the ship afloat, all sorts of polite terms flood the lexicon, downsizing, re-skilling , whatever. It has to happen to stop the haemorrage of money, the life blood of the company. But the banks decide they’re going ultra conservative and they slip a noose around the money supply, veins and temples start to throb, and the business chokes and soon nobody’s got work, and they ‘re not buying from the sandwich shop on the corner, and everyone gets on the slippery slide. We’re all sliding down out of control, hands up in the air trying to grab at anything but all there is is fresh air and daydreams and a longing for things to be back the way they were. When do we get to the bottom of this slide? When we get there will we be going to fast to survive the impact. Will we all be piled up like bodies at Auschwitz or the twisted crumpled metal of a high speed train wreck. Dreams of proprietors, mangled beyond recognition, their greed and ambition , stamped on from great heights by the omnipotent ee-con-O-mee.

Tim Costello once said- we don’t live in a society any more- we live in an Ee-con-O-mee. Oh me Oh my what is that notice in the mail, the little yellow envelope that looks like a bill – surely they’d tell me face to face, look me in the eye if things were about to come to an end, not this way, not this impersonal ‘Don’t come Monday’ and here’s your cheque..

read comments (0)

It’s a long way from a wide apron of superfine sand that tickles toes on mid morning south pacific beaches to the stand on a side show, but there they were, begging to be hit and split. Could it be simpler? One dollar gets you five shots, the balls we throw are the size of a golf ball and heavy, surely, this will split those hairy coconut faces with a single blow. I weigh up the missile in my hand – even heavier than a golf ball I think. I wind back my arm and sling shot the first ball, my muscles stretching and shoulder aching just a little on release. The ball flies into empty space and grazes the side of the oblong challenge. I have no inkling that later in life I will become fond of Thai curries – with that kicking spice of galang galang riding on a wave of coconut milk aiming for the back of my throat in the same way I’m aiming for these fat husks.

I release another ball, aim is better this time and the coconut gives a hollow thwack, but no split or even hint of a bruise-. I lick my lips and taste strawberry milk from the Big M dispensary along the alley. Toes dig deep into my shoes with determination to really whack this sucker this time. I aim for the same one as last time, thinking I might have made some sort of dent or structural weakness- though at eleven years of age I have no clue what a structural weakness might be, probably the same as getting your arm punched after you’ve had injections. My arm ratchets back then swings and fires again I hit it fair and square, it doesn’t budge nor crack nor anything – I wonder why it didn’t fall, is it attached in some way? Is it more side show trickery? Have they reinforced it with glue? Funny thing was, whenever the circus or the sideshows came to town, you could almost bet that the newsagent would get robbed – why them I don’t know, I’m surprised the cops didn’t stake the place.

read comments (0)

Nobody wanted to give in yet, both parties were at it like chained tigers, big muscular paws lashing out occasionally, but the fury and emotional venom of the customer was being held in check for a counterpunch move. The customer service officer [CSO] had exhausted their list of appropriate responses and behaviours with the customer so now it had just about come to fisty-cuffs. They had chewed their way through points of difference as if it were a rubbery medium rare steak, gulped down smoky cuts of half chewed truths and had had trouble digesting them. The customer had bought in an arc welder of justifications with him for defence and now had it turned up full. Both were wearing sheilding face-plates for the battle and soon white hot sparks of outrage and counter accusations in oxy -acetyline yellow were being torched over the counter.

It seemed to the CSO that the customer had misused the product so was not willing to budge on a refund, the customer saying the unit had not done what he expected of it. Initially he had tried to be as clever as a science professor and had been grinding down the CSO with irrefutable logic, but then some crack had appeared and the CSO had got stuck into him about how this was not what the product was designed to do. The CSO had picked up an angle grinder of facts and began to slew them into the thin veneer of lies he perceived was coming from the customer, this is where the sparks began to fly; the orange showers spitting out the side of their mouths could have lit many bushfires. The air was filled with the smell of singed words and broken promises and in the end both parties had not won and felt somewhat defeated. He got his money back in the end, walked out feeling as if his soul had been remade.

read comments (0)

We walked along a line of planks slightly less than the width of our feet, really just a bar raised 3 inches off the ground by way of a divider, between asphalt and grass. It was a high school challenge to keep on that bar for the length of the entire building; a good 300 metres from memory. Interesting, doing that high wire juggling act without a balancing bar. It should have been simple, but, for one reason or another you would inevitably fall off. Holding balance – it was a tricky thing, arms stretched out either side pretending these were counterweights as you crossed imaginary Niagra Falls, that sense of ‘oh shit I’m about to fall’ quickly dealt with by a jerky swing of the arm on the opposite side, rising up on tippy toes, thoughts of failure punching your brain and then you’d be steady again. This was one of those recess activities we indulged in along with roof climbing and drainpipe ascent. Something you’d do after gulping down a 5 cent icy pole. Just flavoured water really – on a stick. Sweet biting icyness balancing against the endless burn of blue summer days, before the ozone layer was dangerous, before sunburn was bad, before we had to care about anything.
At the end of this long thin line of 4 X 2 wooden planks was a smudge on the side of temporary building #3. some sort of psychedelic paint brush cleaning left by a year 12 art student no doubt, but, funny thing was when you’d focused solely on getting along that plank for three hundred meters, this splodge of paint in purple, red and yellow rainbow colours appeared to be moving up the wall in a slow caterpillar crawl, an optical illusion born of eyes focusing on those white planks moving beneath you. Fascinating, almost as tough as trying to see one of those three D pictures inside a bunch of wavy lines but without having to concentrate so hard. We’d kick around outside the rear entrance there playing hand ball, brushing against the dicing fence-line and hope Mardi Marshall the French teacher would come buy, she was WOW! Every teen boy’s fantasy I think, she sure featured in mine! Deep black hair and a sparrow thin body from what I remember and a smile that flashed liked fireworks, a hint of possibility something was going to happen – like falling off that damn plank of wood!.

read comments (0)

Black boots on parade, spitted and polished until they’re shiny mirrors. Silver show buttons chiming in the morning like Sunday church bells. Marching round a square, footfalls in unison crunching through breakfast cereal asphalt. Discipline, discipline, discipline. Drilled deeper than Texas. Structure of command – following orders as natural as blinking, aim, fire, shoot as easy as pointing a remote control. Drilling deeper, all the way to the South pole. When the Lieutenant gives a command, it will be obeyed his will be done.

A demi-God, behind a chair in an office occasionally in the field making decisions about the pawns, about the men, about the sacrifices to be made in the craze of battle. Bullets hissing past, machine guns breathing bullets and spitting them out . Percussion bass drum explosions shaking the core of everything until ears ring continually. He holds the rudder, steers the ship, sees the target, follows his orders, his direction. He too a well heeled dog. The taste of responsibility is as exiting as buttered toast but he eats it for breakfast every day – does his duty. He feels his way through jagged orders and spikey minefields leading the men to another victory with the smell of expired shell casings and cordite from exploded shells hanging in the air. He looks back behind when the objective is reached, sees a litter of wasted humanity – so many have died for so much – but for each maybe a hundred , maybe a thousand are saved- the weight of command presses in like a heavy North Atlantic storm, clouds weigh tons as he thinks of the letters he will be writing home, about how your son fought bravely…….

read comments (0)

Aristotle and Plato, long bearded men sitting in circles of dusty stones back in yesteryear- trying to get it all worked out. Logic and reason – overcoming the raw grunt of emotion. Written and transmitted down the dark ages, drinking hemlock in squalid prison for being right and stubborn. Your belief, your philosophy, your bedrock, your foundation, your signpost that gives you direction. Everybody has one, might not want to admit it, it may be bleak or it may be sunny but you can’t get going without knowing what you think. Every experience has been shot into your brain, good days, bad days, days full of pain and pleasure all lie in the back of your filing cabinet brain – directing every action without you even knowing, unless you deliberately pull back the curtain and examine your motives and ask where am I going? Where have I been? And you start to understand the cracks in the machine, the flaws in the surface.

You might need to take hold of oxy-acetylene and weld things up differently – re-jig the plumbing , get under the sink and refit the pipes. No guarantee it’s going to be better, but you could become a better human being if you adjust your philosophy. It’s not just about why are we here…… I think, therefore I am, It’s about becoming more human, more loving . I believe- others would disagree- Mr Nietchse, old Descartes, John Paul Satre might have a heart attack if they read this- reducing it all to simplistic sand pit phrases, but it gets me through, that’s what I need to do. Some thrive on a different level- programmed well , too well to serve themself – their philosophy is of themself and only themself, but that’s OK it takes all sorts to make a world. So it’s a bit like a gas in my mind this Phil-osssssss-ohfy. Invisible, without a smell but invasive, pervasive, affecting all. Driving the bus of countries advances, driving the divide between emotion and science, guiding us and our un-thought lives. To live more deliberately would seem to be a worthwhile philosophy, but how do you do it?

read comments (0)

Cue news theme and roll, da da da Dah Dah dah dum dah de dee. It peels out of the television like a typewriter on crack cocaine, urgent and forceful, attention seeking, your head whips up from the book or magazine your drowning in or the bit of road your tired of driving down. It’s a coca cola jolt, injecting you with anticipation – what’s next? what’s happened? – what’s so important? The news reader springs out of the television or radio. Surrounded by a backdrop of the static city of broadcast, a fixed camera somewhere on top of a building – showing the changing face of the city, the many moods of life in the megalopolis we’re in.

The presenter with perfect hair and practiced whitened smile sings out the roll of honour for the day. Murder, death, mayhem and natural disaster…. all tragedy – is there any good news? Can there be? At the end of the bulletin something good, a kitten rescued from a tree, a puppy trapped down a drain – something cute to balance out the latrine of waste that’s just been flushed though our mind by way of news? What’s the fascination? Why is disaster such a magnet – Why are court cases such a limpet on our minds- Warnings’ dangers? This could be you if you don’t follow the rules?The consience of society as defined by Tycoon A,B or C? TV bulletins rely solely on image – if there’s none even though it is ‘news’ it doesn’t get a run- and then it’s only got about 45 seconds to do it in. Like a lightning flash on our eyeballs it’s been and gone leaving us wondering, like a meal that has been taken away to early – we have a hunger for more- tune in to the next installment. All these stories crush our insides with the jack boot of journalism, no wonder we need those kitten stories to make us forget it all – this infusion of disillusion and misery we call the news

read comments (0)

He’d been driving them hard now for weeks, down a road that seemed to be made of barbed wire and broken glass, their hearts straining louder than a clapped out diesel motor going up a hill, but they were now tough, armour plated skins as thick as Patton tanks, double insulated against any swoops of misfortune. As they entered the city limits and the coach slowed down a bubbling energy began to grow inside them, they were fizzing away like a shook up can of coke, ready to explode with enthusiasm and fervour.

The stadium loomed like the Coliseum in Rome, MCG walls towering up like the cliffs of Dover over their heads. The bus entered a hole in the walls and it’s diesel exhaust reverberated around the naked concrete walls briefly before depositing them on a well swept apron. Outside they could hear the swell of the crowd as the Grand final progressed through the second quarter. Soon they would have their moment in the sun.

In the change rooms they struggled with their #4 footy boots and drooping shorts, but this troop of kids was gonna show ‘em out there!. Big Jim’s dream had always been to get a team to the grand final -any grand final and today it was the Murrumbeena under Tens. Through the bunkers of concrete they heard the wail of the half time siren and licked their lips with the anticipation of walking out onto that MCG turf for their ten minute kick to kick final – they were definite winners thanks to the effort of coach Jim.

As they ascended the tunnel into the bright October sunshine Jim transfigured himself to become his childhood football hero Alex Jesulenko , the hubbub of the crowd tasted like Belgian chocolate to his ears…..

read comments (0)

I’m thinking about that great English delicacy derived from the Italian one – Spaghetti on toast, and it’s derivatives – alphabeti spaghetti- where the tubular extensions are formed into letters- supposedly to help kids learn their alphabet. It’s a strange ritual I haven’t done in years. A medium sized tin comes with a ring pull. It’s hard slipping nail-less fingers under that little metal flap, a spoon scrabbles away at it for me and as the lid lifts it gives a tuft of compressed air and a metal ripping yawn.

A sea of orange worms look up from inside the can – straight into the saucepan, a vague waft of something tomatoey hits me and I detect another ingredient – cheese. I ate it as a kid so I guess I will now. The spaghetti is floppy and loose and coats the bald bottom of the saucepan with a strange wig of bubbling hair. Of course now , knowing what real spaghetti is and can be, this all looks artificial and fake, but it’s quick and easy. Spaghetti Bolognese – the second easiest dish in my lexicon of food is simple – 500 grams of mince- a bottle of pasta sauce and a handful of pasta as stiff as the bristles on an outdoor broom – brown the meat boil water and you’ve got a meal in fifteen minutes… but this ‘instant’ spaghetti takes around three.

Fabulous on buttered toast. I saw a slice or two from a loaf and the toaster springs to life with orange glowing bars roasting the cliff faces of the bread. The butter melts like ice cream on a hot day and I add the instant karma. The combination of the melted butter and the sandpaper underbelly of the toast and the tomato fill the hidden stomach of my desire, I munch and crunch like a dodgem car in crazy masticating circles, chomping and chewing my jaws a trampoline- until its gone- almost instantly……

read comments (0)

Coaching, teaching at the front of a class on a clean swept white board. A marker in hand giving off false chemical ‘get you high’ odours. A drawing manifests in a series of squeaks, swirls and straight lines. Beside it are straight pointers to wobbly words that wring meaning out of the whole thing. Pliant minds expand and contract as information is absorbed and fed to cortex’s that light up like flashing Christmas tree lights. Off and on, the a-ha moment when it falls into place.

Others struggle- weighing the balance of their need for tactile interactions with intellectual overload. They want to get their hands down and dirty, feel those surfaces, touch those microphones, swing those lathes into place and feel the power of the motor behind their finger tips. Others need to draw their own pictures, write it in their own lingo to understand it fully. A hand brain concreting exercise.

To most of them these desert hours in the classroom are dry as the Sahara, parched brains thirst for a drip of relief, tongues shrivelled, brains shrinking for just one drop of relief, but they keep ploughing through riding the camels of knowledge to the other side of the Kasbah. Drooping pens and watery lines on pages drink up the transmitted knowledge. A whiff of the clear air of freedom enters the room as the clock ticks toward the top of the hour, the taste of unlimited conversations and lunchtime burgers plays on hungry minds…..

read comments (0)